


underneath the skin

by kiranxrys



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (or is it really pre relationship when you've basically been dating for years?), (scientists still can't tell), Confessions, Garak's Claustrophobia, Julian's Genetic Enhancement, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Relationship, Prompt: Cave Fic/Stranded on Planet, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25484365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: Five conversations Julian had with Garak when they thought they were going to die, and the one he had when they didn't.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 12
Kudos: 147
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	underneath the skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Summer 2020 bingo event.
> 
> Set at some point early S5, fic title from Human by Daughter (also inspired by OMAM's album Beneath the Skin). I needed to train myself to write something shorter... so a 7k word fic is what came out of that. Oops.

The first thing he becomes aware of is the breathing. A slightly distant, stuttered sound – somebody struggling for air, bordering on suffocation. It brings images of a lone figure fighting in torrid waters to mind. A person forced beneath the surface into the dark, impenetrable waters below to drown. There in the depths, they get one final glimpse of a pinprick of light above, of the moon in the sky beyond the sea. His eyes are open, but he can’t see. A stab of pain jolts him to higher consciousness, a sharp flash of agony somewhere lower. His leg. With every moment that passes, the sound of breathing seems to grow louder. It’s all there is except for the darkness and his own heart beating in his ears.

The runabout had landed at the entrance to the canyon, Bajor’s sun shining brightly above as they followed Jadzia’s scanner towards the unusual readings. Sisko had explained in the briefing – a base of Cardassian intelligence agents, existing on Bajor since the time of the occupation. Bajoran intel suggesting it was still active. Starfleet intervention required. Julian convinced Garak to come, he’d be useful, after all, since they might even be dealing with dregs of the Obsidian Order. No life signs showed up on the readings. They split off at the cave entrance. Julian and Garak. Jadzia and Kira. There was a sound, and Garak said something – a warning – grabbing Julian’s arm and dragging him out of the way. Out of the way of what? And now-

_Garak._

Julian takes in a slow, steady breath, trying to remember his tactics of becoming aware of his surroundings. He can’t see, but he can feel. His legs won’t move, pinned under some kind of impossible weight. A blinding pain reaches his brain from his lower left leg, tearing away at his ability to think clearly. _Broken?_ He’s lying on his back, body free from the waist up. Except for his left arm, it seems, which lies jammed against a wall. Damn it. He cranes his neck in an attempt to look towards the sound of heavy breathing, but everything is in pitch blackness.

“Garak?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Garak, are you there?”

The silence that follows is long and broken only by that _damn_ breathing noise, even more hurried and desperate than before. It’s starting to do Julian’s head in. He lets his eyes fall closed, resigned to the darkness.

“Doctor.”

That voice would be unmistakable, even if he hadn’t heard it for a hundred years. Julian strains against the overwhelming blanket of rock holding him down to no avail. It only serves to make the pain in his leg a thousand times worse, shocking him with a wave of nausea and dizziness. Bad idea. He does not want to die because he made himself sick and choked on the remains of his breakfast.

“What happened?” he asks, less to Garak and more to the universe at large. He doesn’t feel so much like a person sinking into a deep ocean more now. He feels like a stone. A pebble, even. Slipping uncontrollably down into watery shadows.

“What do you _think_ happened?” Garak hisses. He only sounds like he’s a metre or two away, but in the darkness, it’s impossible to tell. His tone is sharper than usual, tenser. Which would be fair, seeing as they seem to be trapped in a collapsed cave just now. It’s not a very calming situation. “There was a bomb.”

Wincing as another wave of agony crawls up from his crushed leg, Julian feels around with his free right hand for anything of use, finding only cold rock. “Why didn’t the scanner pick it up?”

“Perhaps it was an error in your Starfleet technology,” Garak suggests, rather bitterly.

That brings a frown to Julian’s face. “Forgive me, but weren’t _you_ the one who sneered when I said you ought to be more careful wandering into an enemy base without assessing for risks first? What were your exact words again? _Come now, Doctor, there’s nothing to worry about?”_

Garak is silent.

Julian sighs and rolls his head back around to stare into the darkness above, at the roof presumably there somewhere. Without light, he can’t be sure, but the space they’re in seems small. Cramped. He supposes they’re lucky there’s any space for them at all. The rock on his legs could easily have hit his head and killed him just like that – probably would’ve, if it wasn’t for Garak swooping in the second before the bomb went off to push him to relative safety. “Are you badly hurt at all?” he asks.

“No.” The reply sounds strained.

“Don’t lie to me, Garak. You sound like you’re in pain.”

“I’m feeling quite well, actually,” Garak snaps, “for someone recently crushed beneath a mountain of rock.”

Julian hold backs a sharp retort. Garak really does sound like something’s wrong, with his terse tone and laboured breathing. Small chance of him admitting to it, though. “Well, just hold tight,” he says, reaching up to brush bits of gravel and dust from his face and hair. “I’m sure the others will find us soon.”

“Did you consider that Major Kira and Commander Dax may have been buried in the explosion also?” Garak points out.

He did. Of course he did. He considered that he could be bleeding internally, considered that they might suffocate from a lack of oxygen if they’re left here for too many hours, considered the roof above them could collapse further and kill them immediately. He isn't an idiot. But he’s not a pessimist either. “We left Ensign Ellis at the runabout,” he says, “so even if Kira and Jadzia are trapped as well, there’s someone out there who can find us.”

“I do envy your faith,” Garak mutters darkly.

“Garak, we’re _not_ dying down here,” he insists. “I don’t need any of your Cardassian nihilism right now.”

“And what _do_ you need, Doctor?”

“Some peace and quiet.” Julian Bashir is not suffocating or starving or dying from thirst down in this collapsed cave in terrible pain from his stupid broken leg. Garak’s just going to have to deal with that.

*

“Garak, you’ve got to stop breathing so much, you’re going to use up all the oxygen down here. Do you _want_ us to suffocate?”

The harried sound of Garak’s breathing cuts off abruptly, like a computer shut off from its central power source. Julian was worried for the first half an hour or so that his Cardassian friend might have a punctured lung, or something wrong with his airway, but if that was the case he’s fairly sure even _Garak_ would’ve said something by now. They’ve been lying in this painful silence for almost an hour, by Julian’s count. If this little pocket has no access to outside air, they might not be lying here _alive_ for much longer. Especially not if Garak insists on sucking up what little oxygen they have left and keeping it all for himself.

For a few peaceful moments, he can’t hear anything all. Then something squeaks. _Squeaks._ It sounds like a barely contained outburst of terror, a kind of noise he’d never have imagined Garak could make.

“What’s going on?” he demands. _“Garak,_ you need to _tell me_ what’s wrong.” He wishes he could see. Where did his torch end up when the cave system collapsed? Where is the damn tricorder, Garak’s phaser? And where are the others? If Ensign Ellis was aware of what was going on, he would’ve beamed them out by now. But that is _not_ a thought he wants to be having at the moment. He’s just got to focus on Garak. Be pragmatic. Be Doctor Bashir, Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space 9.

“Nothing’s _wrong,_ Doctor,” Garak finally replies, voice very small, faltering at every second syllable. “Aside from the obvious.”

“You sound like you can’t breathe properly,” Julian says. He speaks as calmly as he can, like he might to a panicked patient in the Infirmary. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“It is merely an… _unfortunate_ psychological reaction to… to our current situation. Nothing to trouble yourself about.” It strikes something tremulous in Julian’s chest, a small assumption he made years ago when he first met Garak – something to do with his confident wit and troubled past, the fact that the most afraid Julian ever got to see him was when he was out of his mind, unable to control his actions or words. Garak sounds uncertain. _Frightened._ And if that’s not absolutely terrifying, he doesn’t know what is.

“What do you mean?” he presses, hoping his rising anxiety doesn’t come across too much in his tone. “Are you…” It strikes him as a sudden realisation, a bright flash of light in the oppressive darkness. “Are you… claustrophobic?”

If silence counts as an admission, Garak’s response is a resounding _yes._ Just the mention of the word in Julian’s ragged and weakening voice seems to make the whole thing so much worse, with the sound of strained breathing growing loud once more. He never would’ve guessed it. He thinks of times on the station, Garak taking refuge in the Jeffries tubes alongside them, Garak jamming himself into closets and corners at opportune moments, and all the while never saying a thing. Of course not. That would be showing weakness, something _Elim Garak_ hates more than anything in the world.

Ignoring the violent stab of pain in his leg, he reaches out again as far as he can, finding purchase on the soft material of what feels like Garak’s sleeve, maybe his torso. The tips of his fingers can just skim the fabric, but Garak must feel it, because his breath catches slightly and Julian’s sure he feels a faint tremor beneath the smooth, woven surface.

“I…” Julian searches for the right words, starting to feel a nasty sense of panic beginning to creep up on him, too. It hovers at the edge of the darkness around them, or maybe it’s above, slowly descending, or below, rising up. Either way, it’s there, and it’s starting to make Julian desperate to move even though all he can do is run his free hand over rock and dust and a tiny piece of Garak that isn’t enough, isn’t enough at all. He often wishes he could be closer to Garak. It’s not with someone like Jadzia, or Miles, where he understands where the boundaries lie. Garak is such an enigma, this one moment and that the next. The lines with him are so blurred. Even after years, Julian still doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, what they are. Just friends? If so, why has it always felt like every lunch is teetering on the precipice of something else, something none of them cares to voice aloud? The air is growing thinner down in their little compartment of Bajoran earth, and perhaps now he’ll never know.

He could ask.

“...Julian.”

He can’t. Shouldn’t. His given name hovers in the shallow empty space between them for a few painful seconds where he forgets how to speak, partly aware that something significant has just happened but not sure what to make of it. Garak spoke so softly, it was barely audible. Just a whisper in pitch blackness, like the echo of a conversation that happened here long ago and it still reverberating against the stone walls.

“What is it?” he asks, pinching fabric between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to feel grounded.

“Julian… My dear… Julian.” Garak’s murmurs sound almost confused, quiet mutterings beneath his breath that Julian was never really meant to hear. Something beyond a stab of pain from a broken leg hits him – a stab of pain right to the heart instead, dizzying.

“You’ve got to… to keep above the surface, Garak,” he says. “Please, I need-”

But there are no more mumbled words to be heard.

His fingers let go of Garak’s clothes and feel around further above him. The Prophets must be feeling sorry for what they’ve done to him so far today, because his hand finds the sudden coolness of metal within moments. He’s held one like it so many times, he knows what it is right away. Struggling to operate one-handed, he makes a desperate prayer. _Please work._ He’ll never ask for anything else as long as he lives, just let it _work._

A faint whir. He cringes away instinctively from the harsh light as the tricorder screen flashes to life, casting an immediate blueish glow over the space. He turns the makeshift torch in Garak’s direction, craning his neck to see. Garak lies like a statue, so perfectly still but for what looks like the faint rise and fall of his chest, uneven and stuttering. His eyes are open, head lolling a little to the side. He's staring at some place beyond Julian, gaze unfocused. Almost empty.

“Garak, you've got to tell me what I can do,” Julian begs, more aware than ever of the terrible pain in his leg. “Talk to me.”

Garak’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t speak.

_We are going to die down here._ It’s an oddly void realisation. It leaves him feeling nothing much at all.

*

Julian is usually good at talking. Good at conversation? That’s another matter. He thinks he’s learned how to hold discourse with people like Garak or Jadzia or Miles, or even Kira and Sisko, fairly well over the years. It comes from experience. He knows them – isn’t questioning half his words while letting slip the unfortunate rest when he speaks with them. Their discussions just seem to flow. Meeting new people, he tries to let them do most of the talking. People love to talk about themselves, so it’s not too hard. Better than Julian getting carried away describing in great detail something no one cares about except for him and embarrassing himself. He reserves those uncontrolled rants for people like Garak and Jadzia, who often seem surprisingly content just to listen. Usually, he has no end of topics to fix his speeches on. Down here, though, it’s hard to think of a single subject that doesn’t feel like tempting fate to talk about.

Besides, it’s no easy task when Garak doesn’t seem to be capable of making even the briefest of replies. His desperate panic seems to given way to an almost catatonic state – a blanket of detachment Julian can’t break through, not even with his most scintillating prion research anecdotes or the best social gossip of Deep Space 9. Like Garak has gone into himself. Like his own body, his own mind, is a prison, and he’s just a tiny fraction of a person cowering in the corner of existence. At least, that’s the way Julian pictures it. Maybe he’s projecting a bit too much. Garak is such a conundrum. He always has been, but instead of his character becoming clearer over the years, it only grows in its obscurity.

He talks to keep Garak’s eyes open. Sometimes he thinks he even sees recognition in the pale gaze before him. Propped up uncomfortably on his aching right arm, he talks on and on about anything that will come into his head. If they were really doing everything they could to survive, Julian would be lying down, as still as possible, trying to conserve the dregs of oxygen in the air around them. But Kira always said he’d talk himself to death one day. He may as well prove her right.

“Anyway, then Leeta asked whether _I_ would teach her to _figure skate,”_ he says, so distracted he hardly hears his own words. He’s talking about himself again. Always a good topic to fall back on when you don’t know what else to say. “Apparently Jadzia told her I used to compete before I started at medical school. You know I came fifth in the San Francisco Free Division once? I was never as good at it as tennis – you know, less about hand-eye coordination and more about… well, coordination, but I used to train for hours almost every day to-”

“Strange.”

He stops speaking immediately, adjusting the direction of the tricorder screen to shine its weak light back on his companion. Garak’s expression seems to have regained a flicker of its usually razor-sharp clarity, the tiniest hint of a smile spreading across his face. “What’s… what’s strange?” Julian asks, wincing as his attempts to get closer jostle his trapped, _definitely_ broken leg again.

Garak’s smile grows wider – in an odd way, it reminds him of the early smiles Garak offered him, back in the old days before they even really knew each other. Intimidating smiles. Ones that say _I know more than you think I do._

_“You,_ my dear doctor.” It’s the most coherent thing he’s said in more than an hour. “You and all your… _talents._ Tennis, figure skating, whatever other abilities you’re withholding from public knowledge until the… the opportune moment. And yet, you chose to become a _doctor.”_

“Yes,” Julian agrees, lowering himself back down. “I did.”

“What I wonder, _Doctor,_ is why?”

Anything to keep Garak conscious of the world. Anything to make Julian feel less alone as death slowly creeps in. “It’s what my father wanted."

“What a _Cardassian_ line of reasoning,” Garak muses. “What about you? What did _you_ want?”

It’s funny, in a way. Garak probably means it more as a probing provocation rather than an earnest question about Julian’s past, but it might just be the first time anyone has ever bothered to ask him about that in his life. His parents certainly never did. There were reasons he could never truly play sport professionally – it felt shameful and dishonest and made him hate himself to Jupiter and back – but he could’ve done _something_ else, almost anything else. “I just wanted to get out,” he says. It’s the truth, really. Who would’ve ever imagined it? Julian Bashir and the truth. Not exactly a match made in heaven. But since he’s in the process of painfully suffocating down here, what does it matter?

“How… uncharacteristically forthright of you, Doctor.”

“What changed?” he asks. “Why are you suddenly… back here? With me?” Garak may sound weak and distant and imprecise, but he sounds aware. _Alive._ It’s a stark difference to the reality that existed only a few moments ago.

“It occurred to me,” Garak replies, “that if I _was_ going to die down in this… this _pit,_ I should make the most of your charming company before the Prophets came to claim our eternal souls.”

“I never knew you were a very religious man.”

Garak makes a noise that could be a faint chuckle. “My dear doctor, you’ll find I have _many_ surprising qualities.”

Julian smiles. “I’m sure you do. But really, how? I didn’t think I would hear another word from you before…”

Garak is charitable enough not to finish his sentence for him. “Even at the moments when we are most lost within our own minds,” he says, “there are tethers.”

“That sounded rather poetic, for a Cardassian.”

“If you knew _anything_ about Cardassians, Doctor, you would know we are a _highly_ poetic race of people.”

“When it suits you.”

“Ah.” Garak sighs, and Julian realises they’ve been staring into each other eyes for several minutes straight now, with barely a few blinks to interrupt the intensity. “But that _is_ the way with most peoples, in my experience. They all make exceptions to their own rules. It’s rather a staple of species survival. Even a Cardassian,” he adds, “can see the danger of absolutes.”

*

“You know, there’s a Cardassian tradition, Doctor.”

“Hm?”

The cave feels as if it’s grown smaller over the past while. Their tricorder ran out of power a few minutes ago, flickering out feebly to leave them in pitch blackness once again. While their survival thus far would suggest there might be _some_ ventilation to the world outside, Julian gets the nasty sense that his brain isn’t getting all the oxygen it would like to. It’s somehow worse than the agony of dying tortured without any air at all, passing on quickly if not peacefully. _Much_ worse. It’s a slow, drawn-out death, a lethargic creep towards darkness laced with the pain of his broken leg and the feeling of Garak being near, just not quite near enough. Not the way Julian imagined he’d go at all.

“When a Cardassian is on his deathbed, he gathers his children – his family – and shares with them all the secrets he’s gathered throughout the years so that they might carry on his mission after his passing.”

“And what mission is that, exactly?”

He can’t see Garak’s smile, but he hears it in the Cardassian’s next words, spoken softly and with more attention than anything he’s said in ages. “To bring down his enemies, of course. Oh, the secrets _I_ would have to share, my dear doctor.” He sounds almost wistful beneath his exterior of sly humour. It’s a strange tone, one Julian thinks he remembers hearing before at times when Garak spoke about Cardassian literature, about Cardassia – a kind of sentimental longing he’s sure would be denied and decried at once if he ever pointed it out.

“Yes, I can imagine _you_ would have plenty of stories to tell,” he remarks. “You’d be leaving a lot of work to your poor family, though. I mean, so many enemies to destroy for just one man.”

Garak laughs with so much _fondness_ it sort of stings. “Quite, Doctor. Unfortunately, it seems I was never destined to wither away surrounded by my ten obedient children and a state funeral planned to honour my memory.”

“Hopefully a Federation doctor and the possibility of a for-profit memorial service in Quark’s will suffice in their stead.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m most grateful for the company. You are no mere _Federation doctor,_ after all. You’re Julian Bashir! _Hero_ of Starfleet. There could be no greater honour than to suffocate alongside a man such as yourself.”

“Don’t tease, Garak,” Julian chides. “But- well, I am here if you desperately want to share any of those… secrets of yours. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to put them to much use.” No matter how many of Garak’s predictions of doom he silences, he knows neither of them is getting out of here alive. It’s been far too long for any chance of rescue to remain. By the time Deep Space 9 realises its mission team is unaccounted for, it’ll be too late.

“My dear doctor, there’s no need! You know all my secrets already.”

“I don’t think _that’s_ true,” Julian mutters. “I mean, Garak, we’ve been friends for _years,_ and I hardly know a thing about you!”

“There was a saying in the Obsidian Order: to trust another is to tell them everything,” Garak says simply.

“And do you? Trust me?”

“Who wouldn’t? You’re a regrettably earnest man, Doctor. You make honesty far too easy.”

“For you, at least,” he counters. “But you’re avoiding the question. I asked whether _you_ trusted me.”

Garak pauses a moment before replying. “For a man who has dedicated his life to science and reason,” he says, seeming to choose each word with care, “you have an _odd_ predilection for posing questions to which you already know the answer.”

That’s enough to draw a laugh from Julian’s dry lips, and it feels so much like they’re back in the replimat on Deep Space 9 again, with Garak artfully evading agreement to a suggestion of Julian’s that they’re both aware is true. Even after all these years, some things remain the same. And Garak will never give the blatant truth when he can say the same thing in lies or distractions instead. Still, Julian hears what he means. He supposes that’s why they’re friends – why he is Garak’s best and perhaps _only_ true friend, because he can make meaning out of supposition. And Garak allows him to do so.

“Oh, _Garak_ , I am going to miss you,” he sighs. He feels strangely light for a dead man. The rock trapping him is immaterial – Garak insists on dragging him back up by the collar of his uniform, away into distant star systems far from collapsed caves and cold deaths in the dark. 

“Planning on going somewhere, are you?”

“You know, I’m not sure, actually. I never thought I believed in… I don’t know, an afterlife, or anything like that. But then if you told me before I left medical school that I’d- well, about _anything_ that’s happened on Deep Space 9 over the past few years – happened to _me,_ I would’ve thought you were being ridiculous. Besides,” he adds, suddenly remembering, “I think I can recall an old friend telling me that an open mind was the essence of intellect, once. Or something along those lines.”

“This old friend of yours sounds like a wise individual.”

“Mm. He is, most of the time.”

“Only most of the time?”

Grinning, Julian turns his head in Garak’s vague direction, imagining the silhouette with all its sharp ridges and lines, the bright blue eyes with their spark of defiant knowing and thinks about how it’s been far too long since they were last light like this together. Which is strange, since this might just be their darkest moment yet. Every other time, he remembers feeling sure that some _how,_ some _thing_ was going to save them. This, though? This is absolutely hopeless. Absolutely and disgustingly hopeless. “Well, he’s also prone to stubbornness, pride and compulsive lying. But I’m wasting oxygen by saying so. I don’t see him changing anytime soon. And… I wouldn’t want him to, exactly.” He’s back in the replimat. Bright uniforms, purple irises, his cup of Tarkalean tea not quite as sweet as he’d like it to be. “It’s why I wanted to know him in the first place.”

*

“Garak?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

It’s becoming so awfully difficult to breathe. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to- that I _need_ to tell you.” Julian says it into the darkness, voice barely more than a strained whisper. “There’s uh- no easy way to put it, really. I’m- I’m an augment. Genetically speaking.” It slips out before he can stop it, a confession that brings with it a very _visceral_ stab of panic. Even in the disorientation of the darkness and lack of breathable air, he feels the kick of terror with perfect clarity.

There’s a painfully long pause and for a moment Julian wonders if Garak somehow doesn’t understand what he means, trying to work out whether he should make up a quick lie to redirect the conversation before too many follow-up questions can be asked. He really wasn’t meaning to say that – not consciously, at least. It’s a classic Julian Bashir move, of course – one for history books. He can’t keep something to himself for just a few minutes more, even when that _thing_ is the sole fact in the galaxy that might have a chance of turning his closest friend against him. Everyone knows what genetically enhanced people are. Dangerously powerful freaks at best. Lifelong insane asylum inmates at worst. Everyone knows that. Everyone.

“Who knows?”

“No one.” He pauses. “You.” The silence is unbearable. “Well, that’s uh- that’s my darkest secret, anyway,” he says, laughing hollowly in a weak attempt to bring their conversation back to whatever flicker of levity it had before. “So now you know mine, since apparently I already know all of yours. We’re even.”

Garak doesn’t respond right away, drawing the whole thing out again in a way that pinches in Julian's racing heart. Every one of his senses is heightened as the world returns to the constant blare of panic it was earlier on, during Garak’s episode when he was just beginning the realise how absolutely hopeless their entire situation was. The fingers of his right hand reach out again to just skim the fabric of Garak’s shirt, feeling for something grounding.

“Impressive,” Garak says.

“What is?”

_“You._ Clearly, I was mistaken when I imagined I had you figured out, Doctor. Every day presents a brand new surprise.”

Julian laughs again, more from disbelief and not knowing what else he could possibly do. It’s so… _Garak._ “Is that all you have to say about it?” he asks, aware of how each word costs twice as much of his strength as it did just a few minutes ago. “You find out my whole life has been a lie and it’s just a _surprise?”_

“It does explain a great deal, I won’t deny it,” Garak remarks. “Though I wonder – why choose to share this intriguing detail with me _now?_ Surely, even given the infinitesimally small chance of rescue, it would be safer to tell no one at all?”

“Well, you… you were here.”

Garak sighs. “Doctor, I thought we were done with the lies.”

“And I thought we were done with asking questions we already know the answers to.”

The silence persists for what feels like years.

“What would’ve happened, Garak? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, I know… I know it’s not really like that, with us. But I just want to know. Since it’ll never happen now, I just want to know where we were going.”

It’s the great question of Julian Bashir and Elim Garak, the query Jadzia has put to him in Quark’s what seems like a thousand times, the possibility held in Miles’ frowns and Sisko’s curiosity. In that awkward conversation with Kira he suddenly recollects from years and years ago up on the second level of the Promenade, when she cornered him after the orphans incident and warned him to be careful around Garak, _he wants something from you, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him._

“You want true, unbridled honesty, do you, my dear?”

“For once, it would be nice.”

The world around them is closing in, faster now than before, and now all the veracity of the universe is compounded into their tiny pocket of suffocating space. He would’ve expected it to be tense, painful. Like previous times, when their _honesty_ came in bursts of raised voices and unfortunate circumstances that tore away their self-control or ability to obfuscate as they wished. Maybe it’s just the fact he can’t quite breathe properly anymore. But there’s so much more peace in truth than he ever could’ve believed to exist before. _You’re a sentimental idiot, Julian._ He just doesn’t want to die feeling that he is alone within himself.

“Well, to say it in not so many words, Doctor… I don’t _know.”_

Julian stretches out further, fingers coming into contact with cold, scaled skin for the first time. Garak’s hand. His left hand. He hadn’t considered they could reach each other like this before. Garak doesn’t object as he intertwines their fingers, gripping as hard as he can. “You don’t know? Really? Were we going anywhere at all?”

“Oh, yes, certainly. We’ve been _going_ somewhere since the very beginning.”

“But you can’t tell me where?”

Garak squeezes his hand back, ever so slightly. Someone with less particular senses might’ve missed it. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Julian can imagine. Imagination was one of the few things he was ever good at that wasn’t tainted, something he could be sure he’d always been, even before the men with no faces took Julian Bashir apart and replaced him, piece by piece. Fantasy exists beyond the science of progress – it’s no _human_ trait, either, it’s a quality of people who are hurt, people who treat their wounds with salves of sickly hopes and dreams, _imagining_ one day they might wake up from the void to blue oceans or desert suns that terraform their miserable worlds into something worth having.

Keeping hold of Garak’s hand, he imagines a life far from this one and tells himself not to resist when the last light dies.

*

“It was a close call.”

“I’m only glad you and Nerys were able to make it back to the runabout in time. I really thought we were finished for a good while there.”

Jadzia gives him a funny look, tilting her chin as if she’s trying to read beneath his skin. The turbolift is uncomfortably quiet. After those few hours in the cave, everything else seemed too loud and bright. The shadowy silence of the lift reminds him of being down there in the dark, struggling to breathe. Not a pleasant memory.

“How’s the leg?”

Julian shrugs, glancing down. “A bit stiff, but that’s to be expected. What about Nerys? Is she alright?”

“I’m not sure,” Jadzia sighs as the turbolift comes to a halt and they step out into the corridor. “I think she will be. She was pretty shaken up.”

He nods distractedly. It’d been a battle to maintain focus throughout their debriefing with Sisko – _he_ hadn’t had much to say, after all. He and Garak were trapped underground when the cave collapsed, kept there until the other members of the mission party were able to rescue them. Jadzia was the hero of the day, this time. He’d mostly had to sit there in silence, half-listening to her report while his mind was elsewhere. On the Promenade, to be precise, in the tailor shop that advertises itself as _Garak’s Clothiers_ with a simple but persuasive sign out the front.

It's been almost three days, now. Three days, and not a word about any of it. Tomorrow is the day they would usually meet for lunch in the replimat to discuss current goings-on or politics or literature. Just the thought of sitting down to chat about philosophy as if none what happened down on Bajor was real or meant anything seems ridiculous. But Julian’s not sure what he would say.

“Kira’s emerging to come to Quark’s for a drink and some dinner, if you want to join,” Jadzia offers, cutting across his train of thought. “I know it’s a little early, but-”

“No, uh…” Julian’s gaze fixes itself on the shadows at the far end of the hall. He hadn’t noticed how close they were, until now. It’s been a long time since he visited that part of the station. Years, really. “No, there’s something I’ve got to do.”

“Something to do with Garak?”

Damn Jadzia. She can always read him too well. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if she called the turbolift to this level to put thoughts of their mutual Cardassian acquaintance in his mind. As if they weren’t there already, pervasive, willing him to run off and do something rash and stupid that’ll ruin what might remain of the friendship that existed before. Too much honesty. There’s no going back to calmer times. Like the war brewing on the edge of Bajoran space, the storm only grows – he can feel it thrumming underneath the skin of Deep Space 9, feeding off the horror of truth. He can’t sit still these days. The incident on Bajor, being trapped in that collapsed cave, was the longest he’d stayed in one place that wasn’t his bed at night for months. Now he remembers why. It _breeds_ honesty.

“I’m afraid things are going to be wrong between us now,” he admits, bouncing up and down on his heels.

Jadzia looks even more curious than before. “Why?”

“It’s too difficult to explain. Suffice to say, they can’t be like they were. Before.”

“Just because things are changing,” Jadzia says gently, “doesn’t mean they’re changing for the worse. Who knows?” She gives him a wink. “Almost dying might’ve been just what you two needed.”

“Maybe,” he says, unable to hold back a smile. “But I think... I think I should go talk to him. You don’t think he’ll mind if I go to his quarters now?”

Jadzia shrugs. “You know him better than anyone. You tell me.”

“He’ll mind,” Julian mutters. “But I’m not going to let him show up to lunch tomorrow and just pretend that everything’s normal and nothing’s changed. Not this time.” He takes a deep breath. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Go get your man, Julian.”

Heat rising to his cheeks, he glances away from Jadzia’s bright blue, far too suggestive eyes and tries his best to frown. “He’s not _my_ man.”

“Oh, I think he is,” Jadzia replies, giving him a nudge in the direction of Garak’s quarters, tucked away in a quiet part of the civilian apartment complexes of the station. “I’ll tell Kira you said hi.”

Then she’s gone, stepping back into the turbolift and calling for the Promenade. So it _was_ intentional, her leading them here. Jadzia Dax is an infamous meddler. He shoots a glare at the closing lift doors, trying to make up his mind whether he should confront Garak or not. In the Cardassian's _own_ quarters, too. It seems so… personal. But then, what Garak knows about him now _is_ personal. It could destroy Julian’s career, his entire life. Not that Garak would ever do something like that. _Let’s hope so, at least._ What had Garak always told him? Not to trust?

But he does. That’s the problem, really. He trusts Garak, and whatever diversions and distractions Garak tries to pull, Julian is ninety-nine percent sure he trusts him back. _Who wouldn’t?_ That’s what Garak said when he asked. Who wouldn’t trust compassionate, open and earnest Julian Bashir? And who _would_ trust Elim Garak, former spy, probably current spy – even if he’s only really spying for himself?

It feels like they _have_ been going somewhere, going somewhere since the very beginning, as Garak said. But the sudden changes of the past few days have thrown them off course, to a place that should’ve been months, if not years ahead. Or maybe never. He just wants to know where they stand. Whether they’re still even standing at all.

“You’re overthinking this, Julian,” he mutters in the silence of the abandoned corridor. “Go and find out for yourself.”

When his knock on Garak’s door is answered with a polite call of _enter_ coming from within, he can’t tell whether he’s relieved or not. Some small part of him was hoping Garak might be mysteriously out so he could avoid this whole conversation altogether. Instead, the door slides open to reveal Garak’s living area, to reveal _Garak,_ who sits on the sofa working on one of his fashion sketches on a PADD. He looks up, setting the device aside in seconds when he sees who his visitor is.

“Good evening, Garak,” Julian says, a little too loudly. Already starting things off on the most awkward foot.

“Doctor.” He sounds surprised, slightly stunned expression too sudden and casual to be intentional. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected company? I assure you, despite our latest ordeal, I’m feeling quite well.”

“I’m here to set things straight,” Julian announces, stepping into the room. It all looks quite a bit how he remembers it, except for a hardcover book on the table – Shakespeare’s notable works, a double volume containing both Federation Standard and Kardasi translations of some of Earth’s most famous plays. Julian gave it to him as a present not long after the incident over the Founders’ homeworld with Tain, when Garak had returned to Deep Space 9 under such a terrible cloud of darkness. Worse even than in the aftermath of his withdrawal. It gave them something to talk about. Julian never had taken that time to learn Garak’s native language as he’d meant to. He should do that.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Garak tells him, apparently taken aback by Julian’s… forwardness. He sits back in his seat, watching from a distance as Julian crosses the room. If Julian didn’t know better, he would’ve said Garak looks almost nervous. Like he’s expecting Julian to waltz in and declare their friendship finished forever.

“We haven’t spoken in days,” Julian says by way of explanation. “Which is ridiculous, frankly. I don’t want what happened on Bajor to change anything about- well, I mean, I don’t _mind_ if things change,” he corrects. “But not if they change so we start avoiding each other or pretending everything I said- everything _we_ said in that cave never happened.”

Garak sits in uncharacteristic silence and waits for him to continue.

“What I told you Garak… no one can ever know. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course, my dear doctor,” Garak says. “Of course. I would never dream of-”

“Because it would destroy _everything,”_ Julian interrupts, too aware of the way his voice is shaking. “My whole career, my whole _life,_ really – I’d never be able to get another job in Federation space, no one wants to be around… people like me. But I just wanted to promise you that it wasn’t me. I know- I know it’s wrong. My parents, they- What I’m saying is, it wasn’t _me.”_

Garak smiles, then, which is strange. He beckons Julian over, patting the sofa beside him almost _affectionately._ Like a lost puppy, Julian walks over and takes a seat, perching on the edge of the chair. He can’t meet Garak’s eyes. He hadn’t intended for the conversation to go this way when he’d entered.

“My dear,” Garak says, not seeming to notice way Julian jumps to attention at the alien address, “it’s as you said. You and I are even. I know this _particular_ detail of your life that could become quite unfortunate if the wrong person were to hear it, and you-”

“And I know _all_ your secrets, of course,” Julian finishes for him. He can’t help a weak smile. “So that’s it? You won’t tell if I don’t?”

“I’m sure there are far more appealing ways of phrasing it,” Garak replies, “but that _is_ the essence of the matter, yes.”

Julian forces himself to look up to meet Garak’s knowing gaze. “And what about the other thing?”

“Which other thing, exactly?”

“You know the one,” he says. “The one about where we were going.”

Garak’s hand comes to rest on Julian’s shoulder and he forces himself to relax under the touch, letting out a breath he’d been hardly aware he was holding. “I’m quite happy to continue in the same manner as before,” Garak says coolly, “though, perhaps, with rather more emphasis placed upon _efficiency._ I would hate for another incident of the kind that occurred on Bajor three days ago to prevent us from reaching certain… _milestones.”_

Face burning, Julian laughs and turns his head away. God above or wherever he is in space since there isn’t technically and up or down – Garak has a way with innuendo and implication. It’s quite frustrating. Still, he can do one better.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, fixing Garak with a look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to attend to.” He stands, regretting the loss of Garak’s touch but finding great satisfaction in the Cardassian’s expression of surprise.

“Doctor, going so soon?”

“Oh, I’m afraid so,” he replies as he steps around the sofa. “I can’t let it be _that_ easy, can I?”

Garak’s brow raises, but to Julian, he looks pleased. Or impressed. Some combination of the two. Either way, it’s a success. “I suppose not,” he answers. “Do you still have time in your _busy schedule_ for lunch in the replimat tomorrow?”

Julian pretends to think about it for a moment, pausing at the door. “Hm. I _think_ I can squeeze you in. Usual time, usual place?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the _world.”_

Once he’s outside and free from Garak’s hearing, he taps his commbadge, struggling not to smile like an idiot. “Bashir to Dax.”

_“Dax here. Julian, what is it? Have you left Garak’s already?”_

“Yes. I’ll be joining you and Kira in Quark’s after all, if that’s okay.”

_“Oh no, did it go badly? It went badly, didn’t it. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have-”_

He’s glad she’s not here to see his stupid grin and poke fun at him for it. “No, no- Jadzia, it was fine. It went excellently, in fact."

_"But...?"_

He sighs. "Don’t worry, you’ll get your way eventually. I couldn’t just let it all happen at once.”

_“Oh. Well, good for you, Julian. Now get over here. Kira’s asking to hear the whole story. I think she might pass out from the horror.”_

“Well, we can’t let that happen. Tell her I’ll be there right away.” He doesn’t think Garak would mind – Jadzia and Nerys are trustworthy people. Besides, he won’t tell them everything. Some things wouldn’t work in words, anyway – they’re more feelings and simple truths, undefinable by language. Hidden details from beneath the skin, secrets he knows, secrets Garak knows, secrets that seem to have bound them together in a way he wonders whether he’ll ever understand. Memories. A constant stream of memories coming from behind and flowing forward into uncertainty, forward into possibility, that Julian Bashir couldn’t resist if he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> A K/D companion piece will be written for this eventually. In the meantime, thank you for reading ♡


End file.
